Blood Hollow

13

May

On a sunny spring morning a few days after the autopsy, on a hillside in Lakeview Cemetery, Charlotte Kane was buried. If she’d still had sight, her eyes would have beheld a wonderful view from the few feet of earth that were to be hers forever. Spread out below her was Iron Lake. In winter, it would be hard and white as a beaver’s tooth, and in summer so blue it would seem like a fallen piece of the sky. If she’d still had her senses, she’d have felt the touch of the wind off that lake and smelled the cool, deep scent that was the breath of a million pines. Cork had always believed that if you were going to be stuck somewhere forever, that hillside was a pretty good place. Not many people were asked to attend the simple graveside ceremony. Rose and the Soderbergs were among them. Rose had spoken with Glory about a visitation, some way for the folks of Aurora-or of St. Agnes, at least-to pay their respects, but Glory wanted nothing of the kind. Apparently, what Glory wanted most was to be gone, because the morning after the funeral, she left town. Without a word to anyone. Not that there were many who would have cared. Rose told Cork that when she stopped by the old Parrant place to call on Glory, Fletcher had given her the news. “Gone,” was all he would say. And no idea where. Cork could see that Rose was puzzled by her friend’s abrupt departure, and perhaps a little hurt that Glory hadn’t said good-bye.

April warmed gradually into May. The ice on Iron Lake retreated and then was gone. The aspens and poplars budded, and above them geese wedged their way home to the Boundary Waters and to the lakes of Canada beyond.

The Anishinaabeg called May wabigwunigizis, which means month of flowers. It was the season in which Grandmother Earth awakened and the storytellers fell silent, waiting to speak the sacred histories until after the wild rice had been harvested and the snow had returned and Grandmother Earth slept again.

It was tick season. The news was full of reports and warnings of Lyme disease, and doctors’ offices were crowded with patients concerned about every little rash.

It was softball season, and Cork’s favorite team, the Aurora High Voyageurs, for which his daughter Annie pitched, were predicted to take the conference title.

It was the opening of fishing season, the beginning of months when tourists flocked to Aurora lured by walleye and the beauty of the great Northwoods naked of snow.

And it was, as always, the season of love.

“Dad?” Annie said.

“Yeah?”

“What do guys want?”

It was Saturday afternoon. Cork was standing on a stool in Sam’s Place, checking the consistency of the mixture for the shake machine. Business had been slow that day, which was good because Annie had seemed preoccupied.

“Big question,” Cork replied. “With lots of answers, depending.”

“I mean, what do guys look for in a girl?”

She was Cork’s middle child, fifteen years old, and had developed a bit later than her friends the slopes and curves that might catch a young man’s eye. She had never dated, channeling all her energy into sports, especially softball. She was a decent student, although academics were far less important to her than they were to her sister, Jenny. Lately, however, her grades had been slipping and Cork wondered if the current conversation might be a clue as to the reason. It was an unusual topic to be discussing with Annie. Usually they talked sports. But Cork gave it his best shot.

“I can’t speak for all guys. I fell in love with your mother because she was strong, independent, smart. I liked that. She laughed at my jokes, too.”

Annie leaned on the counter of her serving window. She wore jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt with VOYAGEURS printed across the front. She’d begun to let her reddish hair grow out, and it was at an unruly, in-between stage that made it look like licks of flame were bursting out all over her head.

“She was pretty, though. Right?” Annie asked.

Cork put the lid back on the shake maker and climbed down from the stool. “I thought so. But, you know, love has a way of making people beautiful. To each other anyway.” He put the stool in the corner next to a stack of cartons that held potato chips.

Annie was quiet a moment. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

He looked at her. Sunlight cleaved her face, and the freckles of her left cheek were like a field of russet flowers. “Gorgeous,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Gorgeous.”

“Oh, Dad.”

He could see that she was pleased. She went back to looking out the window, at the lake that was a huge, sparkling sapphire.

“We were talking about sex at youth group the other night. Like, not officially or anything,” she added, catching the look on her father’s face. “A few of us after. We asked Randy about it, you know, to put him on the spot, see if we could embarrass him.”

She was speaking of Gooding, who headed the youth program at St. Agnes.

“Did it work?”

“Oh yeah. He got all red in the face. It was sweet.” She used sweet the way kids did when they meant devilishly enjoyable.

“What did he say?”

She scraped a finger idly along the window glass. “That men mostly want a woman they can respect and who’ll respect them back. Respect is important, huh?”

“I’d say so.”

She looked at him coyly. “When you told me why you fell in love with Mom, respect wasn’t one of the things you mentioned.”

“Respect preceded the love,” he said, thinking quickly.

Annie laid her head on her arms like a tired dog and thought awhile. “Gwen Burdick got her navel pierced and she wears these short tops so you can see her belly button ring. Guys seem to like that, but it seems to me that’s got nothing to do with respect.”

Cork almost said that there were a lot of things guys liked that had little to do with respect, but he didn’t want to open a door to a subject he wasn’t comfortable pursuing.

“I’m thinking of getting my ears pierced.”

“Have you talked to Mom?” Cork opened a carton of chips and took out a half dozen small bags. He began to clip them on the display near the other serving window.

“Yeah, she says ears are okay but it stops there.”

Thank God for Jo, Cork thought.

Two days later, Annie showed up for work an hour late wearing dark lipstick that made her look like a vampire who’d just feasted, and sporting dark eye shadow that made her lids appear to be bruised. Gold studs twinkled from her earlobes. She wore a tight red top and jeans that hugged her butt. She went about her business as if nothing were unusual. About her makeup and clothing, Cork judiciously held his tongue, thinking that he’d talk things over with Jo first. About the pierced ears, he said, “Looks good, kiddo.”

Jenny, who was also working, was blunter. “You look like a KISS groupie. Why don’t you let me help you with your makeup?”

“Who died and made you fashion queen?”

“Fine. You want to date zombies, you’ve got the right look. You decide you want to date guys, let me know and I’ll give you the benefit of my excellent taste.”

In the evening, a little before seven, Annie took a break and stepped outside. Cork watched her walk down to the dock, bend, and study her reflection in the water of Iron Lake. He hoped that she saw deeper than that awful layer of makeup, saw what he saw, her unbridled laughter, her grace when she moved on the ball field, her shining spirituality. It was what he hoped some young man would see someday, but Annie was probably right. Boys were more apt to be impressed by exposed midriffs and pierced navels.

Randy Gooding drove up in his Tracker, parked, and came to the serving window. “Hey, Cork, Annie around?”

“Taking a break down by the lake. What’s up?”

“I need to talk to her about the youth group car wash next weekend. She’s in charge, she tell you?”

“I think so.”

“All right if I go on down?”

Cork thought of warning him about Annie’s new look but decided against it. “Go ahead.”

After Gooding left, Jenny said, “I’d buy a ticket to see the look on his face.”

They watched Gooding saunter down to the dock. Annie was so engrossed studying her reflection that she didn’t hear him coming. Gooding called to her as he neared. She straightened up and turned to him, an expectant smile on her face. Gooding stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, he just stared. His back was to the Quonset hut and neither Cork nor Jenny could see his face, but it must have been something awful because Annie’s response was a look of horror. Gooding finally spoke, and Annie took off, running in the direction of Aurora and home.

Cork rushed from Sam’s Place and hurried to the dock. “What happened?”

Gooding stared fiercely in the direction Annie had fled. “My God, Cork, didn’t you see her?”

“Yeah, I saw her.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“Like what?”

“Like she’s just asking for trouble.”

Cork knew a lot of men thought that way, a lot of cops, but it surprised him coming from Gooding. And because it was Annie, it pissed him off, too.

“It’s a look, Randy. Christ, just a look. She’s not asking for anything.”

“Maybe not, but that kind of look can get a girl hurt, even a good kid like Annie.”

“Did you tell her?”

“You bet I did.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Cork stepped back and let the boil of his own blood cool. “This doesn’t sound like you, Randy. That was Annie you sent off in tears. She thinks the world of you.”

Gooding watched Cork’s daughter as she grew smaller with every stride that carried her away, and slowly his face changed.

“What’s going on, Randy?”

Gooding kept his eyes on Annie until she merged with all that was indistinct in the distance.

“Randy?”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have spoken to her that way. It’s just

…”

“Just what?”

“Look, it wasn’t Annie I was seeing. It was Nina.” He rubbed his temple with his fingertips and seemed genuinely pained. “You got a minute?”

“I’ve got all the time it takes for a good explanation.”

It was dusk and everything was bathed in hues of faded blue. Gooding shifted his feet, and the old boards of the dock squeaked under his weight. He pulled on the short red hairs of his beard and stared east where the evening star was already visible.

“I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I grew up in a children’s home,” he said. “Most of us there were orphans.”

“I didn’t know.” Cork’s anger softened and he said, “Must’ve been tough.”

“It was okay, really. We felt like family, a lot of us. There was one girl in particular who was the nearest thing to a sister I ever had. Nina. Nina van Zoot. From Holland, Michigan. After we left, Nina and I kept in touch. She went to Chicago. I went briefly into the seminary, then finished school in Ann Arbor and decided to join the Bureau. I requested assignment to the field office in Chicago, mostly because Nina was there. They didn’t have an opening, so I ended up at the Milwaukee field office. That was fine. Couple of hours from Nina, I figured.

“In her letters, she’d told me she was working for the church, but when I visited her, I found out that was a lie. She’d been telling me what I wanted to hear. The truth was that she was in the life. A prostitute. Broke my heart, Cork. I tried to help. Nina’s smart. She could have done anything she set her mind to. But she wanted none of it. Had herself a world-class pimp. Guy who told her she was gold, and she fell for it. My god, what a fall.”

He paused a moment, looked down at the dock, shook his head.

“When I saw Annie, all made up like that, for a moment all I saw was Nina.”

“I guess I can understand.”

Gooding’s face was soft blue, troubled in the evening light. “I left the seminary, stopped preparing for the priesthood because I didn’t have it in me to forgive. I still haven’t forgiven Nina. And that pimp of hers, I hope he rots in hell.”

Cork waited a moment, then said, “I think you’re right. You probably would have made a terrible priest. But you’re a pretty good cop.”

Gooding opened his hands. “What do I say to Annie now?”

“Why don’t you let us do a little damage control first?”

Gooding nodded, still looking bereaved. “God, I feel horrible.”

“She’s young. She’ll recover.”

Gooding took a step as if to walk away, but paused and, his voiced weighted heavily, said, “I wasn’t completely off base, Cork. You know it as well as I do. Even a good kid like Annie, looking like that, she’ll give men the wrong idea.”

“We’ll talk to her, Randy.”

“All right.” He walked slowly back to his Tracker.

Cork closed down Sam’s Place immediately, and he and Jenny headed home. Jo met them at the door.

“Annie here?” Cork asked.

“She came in a few minutes ago, crying, ran upstairs. She’s locked herself in her bedroom. What happened?”

“Randy Gooding said something.”

“Randy? What could he possibly have said?”

“She got her ears pierced today.”

“I knew she was planning on it.”

Jenny said, “Did you get a good look at her face, Mom?”

“No. Why?”

“She tried makeup. She looks like an extra from Night of the Living Dead. And she was dressed straight out of Slutsville.”

“Randy took it on himself to tell her she was asking for trouble,” Cork said. “He wasn’t very diplomatic about it. Did you try to talk to her?”

“I knocked. She told me to go away.”

“What if I tried?” Cork said.

“Give her a little time to herself.”

There was a knock. Cork turned, saw Gooding on the front porch beyond the screen door, and he stepped outside. Randy stood there looking like a big, awkward kid.

“Cork, I was wondering if you’d give something to Annie for me.”

Randy handed him a large sheet torn from a sketch pad. In addition to the standard training offered all recruits, the FBI had tapped a special talent in Gooding and trained him as a sketch artist. These days he drew for his own pleasure. Although he called himself a hack, he was quite good and was sometimes convinced to give his drawings as gifts. What he handed Cork was a lovely charcoal sketch of Annie, sans makeup and earrings.

“It’s a kind of apology,” he explained.

“Is this recent?”

“A while ago. I’ve done sketches of most of the kids in the youth group, just for my own enjoyment, but I’ve never given any of them away. I screwed up big time, and I wanted to do something special for Annie.”

“I’ll see that she gets it.”

“How’s she doing?”

“I’m guessing her mascara’s run all the way down to her chin.”

“Man, I’m so sorry. But look, there’s something that might help cheer her up. I have it on good authority that Damon Fielding has been trying to work up the nerve to ask her out.”

“Damon Fielding?”

“Brad and Cindy Fielding’s son.”

“I know who he is. Set a conference record for stolen bases last year. Fast kid. How do you know he’s interested in Annie?”

“He’s treasurer of the youth group, and he’s horrible at keeping secrets.”

“Nice kid,” Cork said.

“They don’t make ’em any nicer.”

“I’ll let her know. But you still owe her a personal apology.”

“She’ll have it.”

Gooding walked down the steps into the deepening gloom as night overtook Aurora.

Cork went back to the living room, where Jo and Jenny were waiting. “I’m going up to talk to Annie. Okay?”

“I think it would be all right now,” Jo said.

Upstairs, he tapped at her door. At first there was no answer. Then Annie called out in a small voice, “Yes?”

“It’s Dad. May I come in?”

“Just a minute.”

He waited. In her room, there was a tiny click and a little welcome mat of light slipped under her door. A moment later, she opened up.

He hadn’t exaggerated to Gooding. Black mascara ran down each of Annie’s cheek in a wide, crooked line. The whites of her beautiful brown eyes were red from crying. Her hair was a mess. She left the doorway, went to her bed, and sat down, all slumped over. Cork sat beside her and put Gooding’s sketch facedown on the floor.

“I just talked with Randy Gooding.”

“Here?” She seemed alarmed.

“He came by to apologize.”

She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

Cork put his arm around her. “He won’t.”

“Oh, Daddy.” She fell against him and buried her face in his chest. “I messed up.”

“No, you didn’t.”

She pulled away and reached toward her ears. “I’m going to take these awful things out. I’m never going to wear them again.”

“Now wait a minute.” Cork gently gripped her wrists, restraining her. “Your mother has pierced ears. Do you think that’s so awful?”

“No.” She lowered her hands and Cork let go.

“Before you ran into Randy, were you happy with what you’d done?”

“Yes.”

“Then stick with it.”

Annie thought it over. “You think I should?”

“Absolutely.” He reached out and blurred one of the black mascara lines with his finger. “You might want to talk to Jenny. Get some pointers on makeup.”

She shook her head adamantly. “I’m not wearing makeup anymore.”

“Not a bad choice,” Cork said. “You’re beautiful without it.”

“Really?”

“Cross my heart.”

Annie kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks.”

“Randy left this for you.”

He gave her the drawing, and her face broke into a wonderful smile.

“One more thing,” Cork said. “I have it on good authority that Damon Fielding wants to ask you out.”

“Damon?”

“That’s what I hear.”

Her eyes danced. “Radical.”

Cork left her sitting on her bed, with Gooding’s offering in her hands and the prospect of Damon Fielding in her thinking.

After Gooding’s reaction to Annie, Cork thought a lot about Charlotte Kane, considered if maybe something had gone terribly wrong with a quiet young woman’s attempt to be desirable, and, as Gooding had feared, she’d become involved in something way over her head and dangerous, perhaps with the married man Solemn believed she was seeing. He wanted to talk more with Solemn about that possibility, but the young man had vanished completely. From discussions with Dorothy Winter Moon, Cork knew that she’d given her son nothing. She claimed not to have seen Solemn at all since his disappearance. If she was telling the truth, Solemn was flat broke. His truck was still in the impound lot, so he had no transportation. He had no clothes but those he’d been wearing when Cork had last seen him. So what had become of Solemn Winter Moon?

Periodically, Cork visited the old cabin on Widow’s Creek, looking for an indication that Solemn might have returned to the place where he’d spent good times with Sam. Early one sunny Sunday morning in the middle of May, he drove to the rez, through Alouette, and up north toward Widow’s Creek. The wild grass was high on the narrow track that led between the pines to Sam’s old cabin. Cork parked and went inside. The place smelled musty and abandoned. He saw that a spider had spun a web in one of the kerosene lanterns and had already trapped and bound in silk a bounty of tiny prey. As he stood in the middle of the empty cabin, he heard a scurrying under the bunk. He understood. The cabin was gradually being taken over. In the end, the woods would reclaim the land and the materials Sam had borrowed to build his little home.

He walked to the creek. The snowmelt was over, and the water was clear now, fed by a spring that bubbled from a rocky hillside about a mile northeast. Sam had erected his cabin beside a little waterfall below which the creek widened into a pool a dozen feet across. The water Sam drew from the pool he used for everything-drinking, cooking, bathing. All winter long, even when the deep cold put a hard shell of ice over the creek, Sam kept a hole cleared in the pool. The bucket with which he carried water was still there, sitting upright on a flat rock on the bank. Cork glanced inside. A black snake lay coiled at the bottom. It lifted its head toward Cork. The fork of its tongue tasted the air. It was a harmless racer, not dangerous at all. Still, its presence in the bucket startled Cork and left him feeling uneasy.

He looked around once more and was about to return to his Bronco when something caught his eye and his ear. A couple of hundred yards south along the creek, a dozen crows circled, dropped, and rose. They cawed furiously in the way of those scavengers when they were squabbling over carrion. Their cries grated against the stillness of the woods and added to Cork’s sense of disquiet. He began to make his way through the bog myrtle that grew thick along the banks of Widow’s Creek. It didn’t take him long to realize he was following a faint trail that had recently been broken through the thorny shrub growth.

Everything about the scene felt a degree off, as if the whole compass of that place had been shifted. His uneasiness deepened into a true sense of menace, and he found himself wishing he’d brought his rifle.

The crackle of the brush as he pushed through alerted the crows. At his approach, they scattered. They’d been feeding on something at the center of a patch of ostrich ferns grown a yard high. Cork could see an outline of crushed greenery, but the growth was too thick and too high for him to be able to make out immediately what was there. The size, however, was about right for a human body. He caught a glimpse of soft tan like a leather coat, and almost immediately was assaulted by the smell of rotting flesh. He steeled himself and went forward.

It was death, all right, but not exactly as he’d anticipated. The carcass of a yearling whitetail lay on a bed of bloodied ferns. Its throat had been shredded, its stomach cavity ripped open, emptied. Cork suspected it had been brought down by wolves who’d feasted and left the rest for scavengers. He stood awhile looking down at the raw flesh that was so thick with flies it appeared to be covered by rippling black skin. What was it he’d expected? What was it he’d feared? That it would be Solemn he’d find there? And why was that? Because death would have explained easily how Solemn had been able to drop so completely off the face of the earth. And because a shadow had come over all of Cork’s thinking now, a darkness that shaded all his expectations with foreboding.

The crows cried at him bitterly from the branches in the pines where they’d fled. Cork left the place and walked back to his Bronco, unable to shake the sense that in these woods there was a great deal that wasn’t right.